


A Christmas Pilot

by pooh_collector



Category: White Collar
Genre: canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pooh_collector/pseuds/pooh_collector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of Pilot set during the holiday season where Neal was never a criminal, but he and Peter strike a deal (or two) nonetheless.</p>
<p>The lovely artwork is all thanks to Kanarek13</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

  
Last Christmas

The snow was falling harder, swirling in the winter wind. It bit into Neal’s skin and froze onto the tips of his hair and his eyelashes. The plane was on the far side of the tarmac and Neal was just close enough to see his beautiful wife Kate though one of the cabin windows. She waved and he smiled, fighting against the tightness the cold created in the muscles of his cheeks.

He pulled his coat tighter against his body and resumed his walk to the private plane they had chartered to take them to the Cote d’Azur to celebrate the holidays and their first anniversary.

Neal heard his phone buzz inside his coat pocket. He hesitated, his sense of responsibility telling him it could be a client and he should answer it. But there was Kate, standing in the open doorway of the plane. She waved him toward her, love and excited anticipation on her face before she disappeared back into the cabin. Work could wait, he was on vacation; his wife was his only responsibility now.

His phone buzzed again and Neal was flooded by a sudden unexplainable dread. He stopped and when his cell buzzed a third time, he pulled it from his pocket. He didn’t recognize the number, but something compelled him to hit accept.

As he raised the phone to his ear, Neal saw a brilliant flash out of the corner of his eye. An instant later he heard the explosion. Before he had time to register what had just happened, he was thrown onto the icy ground his skin burning where it had been freezing just a moment ago.

 

This Christmas

The foremost expert on safecracking for the New York division of the FBI cracked his knuckles and leaned in against the wall of safe boxes. He placed his fingers gently on the lock wheel and began to slowly turn it clockwise.

“Drop three.”  
“Drop two.”  
“Drop four. All pins down, preparing to open.”

Something was tickling at Peter’s brain. Those numbers… “Three, two, four… Wait!” Peter yelled as he turned toward the vault.

An instant later there was a muffled explosion and then smoke poured from the entrance to the vault. Peter raced into the thick grey cloud. The visibility was zero inside the safe, but he found his expert when he inadvertently slammed into him. Peter grabbed the man by the sleeve of his shirt and hauled him out of the safe and back into the marble-floored vestibule.

“What happened?” The safecracker asked once he had coughed the smoke from his lungs.

“I said wait and you didn’t wait,” Peter replied, his annoyance clearly evident in the tone of his voice. “Ten thousand man hours to get this close to the Dutchman and you blow up my evidence.”

“Agent Burke, how did you know it was going to do that?” Jones was the most promising young agent on Peter’s team, but the question further irritated him nonetheless.

“Look at your phones,” Peter ordered. “Three, two, four - what does it spell?”

“Oh, FBI,” Clinton Jones replied.

“Yeah, FBI.”

“Apparently he knew we were coming,” Jones concluded.

“You think so, Copernicus?” Peter shook his head and then headed back into the vault. The smoke had mostly dissipated, but Peter still coughed from the remnants.

Inside the booby-trapped box Peter saw a rolled up piece of paper. He grabbed a pair latex gloves out of his jacket pocket and pulled them on. Then he reached inside the box and gently pulled the paper free. It was small, maybe six by ten inches. Carefully, he unrolled it; it was badly damaged from the blast and the smoke, but from what Peter could still make out it looked like a small pen and ink drawing.

He stepped back out of the vault and held the paper up carefully for his agents to see.

“Somebody wanna- wanna tell me what this is? Huh? Anybody? Nobody knows what it is. Great. Look at you. How many of you went to Harvard?”

The majority of the men and women surrounding him raised their hands.

Peter shook his head in disgust. “Don’t raise your hands, don’t.”

***

That night, Peter brought the ever-growing Dutchman file home with him. After dinner he sat at the table and stared at a photo of the damaged page that came out of the vault.

El came out of the kitchen where she had been cleaning up after dinner and wrapped her arms around him from behind, as was her habit. “Hmmmm.”

“You know what this is?” Peter asked, hopefully.

El plucked the picture from his hands and stood, examining it thoughtfully for a moment before answering. “Not specifically. But, it looks like it could be an old etching on parchment.”

“An etching?” Peter asked, turning in his chair to face his wife.

“See here and here,” El said pointing at the various places on the photo. “With an ink drawing, there is less uniformity in the density the lines. So this was probably a print made from a plate. I can’t tell for sure of course, since this whole section on the top and the left is so damaged, but if I had to guess.”

Peter sighed. “That’s the problem. I need more than a guess. I’ve spent years chasing this guy and this is the best clue I’ve had in a long time. I need to know what it is so I can use it to get him for whatever he’s up too now.”

“Then you need an art restorer, and a good one.”

“Yeah? Got one hiding upstairs in the closet that I don’t know about?”

El smiled. “No, but I might know one. His name is Neal Caffrey. He consulted for the Diarmitt while I was there. I can call the manager tomorrow and see if they have a contact number for him.”

***

Three days, and five voicemail messages later, Peter was getting tired of waiting to hear back from Neal Caffrey. Christmas was fast approaching and Peter wanted to be able celebrate not only the holiday, but the capture of the Dutchman that day.

The information El had gotten from her former manager hadn’t included an address and it took some serious digging, but Peter finally came up with a place of residence for Neal Caffrey on Riverside Drive. When he pulled up Peter couldn’t believe that an art historian and restorer could afford to live in the stately mansion that stood before him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He double checked the address he had written down and then approached the front door. A maid answered the bell and ushered Peter inside. The house was as palatial on the inside as it was on the exterior. From down the hallway, cast in shadow, a woman was approaching.

“I must have the wrong address.”

“You must be Peter,” the woman stated as she emerged into the light. She was a handsome older woman, dressed richly, carrying a small pug in her arms. “He’s upstairs. He’s been expecting you.”

Peter couldn’t find the words to answer. The whole experience thus far had been too surreal.

“Just take the stairs up to the fourth floor and knock on the door to the right,” the woman instructed him, pointing toward the grand staircase.

“Thank you,” Peter finally managed to say before heading up the stairs.

On the fourth floor, Peter found the door easily enough and knocked sharply. There was no response immediately, and Peter was just about to knock again when he heard someone yell out. “Who is it?”

“Agent Peter Burke, with the FBI. I left several messages.”

Peter heard some rustling and then footsteps approaching the door. The door opened, a few inches, and Peter was face to face with a man with the brightest blue eyes and the longest eyelashes he had ever seen. Even more disconcerting was the long, disheveled sweep of brown hair and the full unkempt beard on the younger man’s cheeks and chin. Through the narrow opening Peter could see that the man was barefoot and dressed in a pair of paint-stained chinos and a white tank that stretched snuggly against his lean, but muscled torso.

“What do you want?” The man who Peter assumed was Neal Caffrey asked.

Peter lifted his eyebrows. “Well, as I explained in the _several_ messages I left, I was hoping to enlist your expertise with a damaged etching I found as part of a case.”

“What kind of etching?” Caffrey asked suspiciously.

“I’m not really sure, which is why I need your help.”

Caffrey shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He started to close the door, but then stopped. “But, thank you for the offer,” he concluded politely.

Before Peter had the chance to formulate any sort of reply, the door was shut and the lock was clicked in place.

The older woman who had greeted Peter when he first arrived was waiting for him in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs.

“When I got here you told me he was expecting me?” Peter asked as he reached the main floor.

“Yes, he assumed you would be persistent enough to come and find him. Did he agree to help you?”

“Ah, no.” Peter replied with a shake of his head.

A look of sadness flitted across the older woman’s face, “Come back tomorrow, at four, we’ll have tea.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Neal and I always take tea in the sitting room at four. Please join us tomorrow.”

Peter nodded. “Thank you…”

“June, June Ellington.”

“Thank you, Ms. Ellington.”

“Oh, please call me June.”

***

Peter spent a lot of time over the course of the day, and a fairly sleepless night, trying to decide whether or not to go to tea. He desperately wanted to catch the Dutchman, oh how he wanted to catch the Dutchman, but he wasn’t sure that dealing with someone as odd as Neal Caffrey seemed to be was worth the trouble.

The next morning, he assigned Diana, his probie, to come up with an alternative. There was a woman who lived in Los Angeles, a retired guy whose eyesight was apparently gone in New Rochelle and some guy named Curtis Hagen, who had a reputation for being one of the best in the world and also the surliest. Caffrey’s reputation had eclipsed Hagen’s by far, he seemed to have been the undisputed best, for everything from Byzantine art up to Postmodernism, until a year ago when Caffrey appeared to go to ground, taking only a few smaller jobs since.

So Peter found himself back at June Ellington’s mansion just before four, for tea and a second attempt at recruiting Neal Caffrey.

The maid took Peter’s coat and then led him down the hallway to a sitting room where June was already waiting. “Good afternoon, Peter.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Please have a seat, Neal will be here any moment.”

Peter nodded and sat in a chair next to the settee that June was occupying. He had barely settled himself when Caffrey entered the room. He looked different, better than he had just the day before. He still had the scraggly beard but his long hair was combed and slicked back. Today’s chinos were paint free and instead of the tank, the younger man wore a pressed button-down shirt and Italian leather shoes.

June stood as he entered, “Neal dear, you remember Agent Burke.”

Neal hid his surprise at finding an unexpected guest quickly; Peter was just able to catch a glimpse before he moved into the room and sat in the chair opposite Peter.

A moment later, the maid brought in a large tray with a tea service for three and an assortment of pastries. She set the tray down on the coffee table in front of the settee and then retreated from the room.

“Agent Burke, how do you take your tea?” June asked as she picked up one of the china teacups and its saucer and began to pour from the pot.

“Black is fine, and please call me Peter.”

June handed him his cup. “Please help yourself, Peter,” June said nodding toward the plate of sweets. She turned her attention toward Neal then, pouring his tea and adding a dash of milk before handing the cup to him.

“Here you are, dear.”

“Thank you,” Neal replied quietly.

Peter had just shoved an amazing chocolate butter cookie into his mouth when June turned back to him. “So Peter, I hear that you have a puzzle that you would like Neal’s help with.”

Peter nodded, unable to speak around the cookie, and grabbed the manila envelope that he had brought with him. He pulled a high-quality photo of what was left of the etching they had found in the ruined safe box and laid it next to Neal’s tea saucer.

After he swallowed, he pointed to the photo. “This is the one lead we have to catch a forger we call the Dutchman. If Neal can restore it well enough for us to determine who the artist was, and what the original image looked like, we might be able to figure out what the Dutchman, he’s a forger and thief, is up to and catch him.”

June turned to Neal. “What do you think, dear?”

Neal put down his tea cup and picked up the photo. His brow furrowed as he examined the image. “What did you say happened to this?”

Peter cringed remembering how the etching was ruined. “It’s mostly smoke damage from a small explosion.

Neal’s eyes didn’t leave the photo, but he nodded in response to Peter’s statement. He spent a couple more minutes staring at the photo before placing it back down on the coffee table. It would be an interesting challenge to clean the smoke residue from the parchment and repair the damage. And, he had to admit, if only to himself, that the idea of working for the FBI, to potentially catch a forger, was somewhat intriguing.

“I need to see the original before I can say for sure, but I can probably repair it, at least to the point of discovering the artist and the work, if it’s a previously known piece.”

“That would be wonderful,” Peter replied. “I’ll arrange for a visitor’s pass at Federal Plaza and any supplies that you need.”

Neal looked up, meeting Peter’s eyes for the first time. “No I can’t… I need to work here.” He didn’t work outside of his studio upstairs; he had barely left the mansion at all since the day that he had lost Kate. It was too hard to see the world going on blithely without her.

Peter hesitated. He couldn’t let evidence leave the FBI building, but he didn’t want to lose the kid now. Fortunately, he was saved from having to make a decision that could risk the chain of evidence when June spoke.

“Neal, dear, I’m sure Peter can provide you with a private space and I’ll have Leonard drive you.”

Neal turned to June, his expression unreadable.

“You have to admit, it will be an intriguing challenge,” she added.

As she was so remarkably capable of doing, June had echoed Neal’s own thoughts. He sighed, resigned himself to making a commitment he wasn’t sure he was ready for, and then slowly nodded.

***

Peter stood outside the small conference room that had been dedicated to Neal’s workspace, watching the young restorer. Neal’s head was bent over the table, so close that his beard was brushing the surface, as he painstakingly worked on the parchment of the etching.

Two days earlier when he had first walked through the doors and into the White Collar offices his chinos been replaced with a suit that fit him like the proverbial glove, right up to the fedora that graced his head. He was dressed like a man who owned every space he stepped into, and Peter could easily imagine Neal Caffrey as that confident and self-possessed man, but instead the younger man looked nervous, out of place and anything but confident.

But now, Neal was in his element. He radiated self-assurance in every move he made as he worked to restore the etching. It was as if there were two Neal Caffreys - one who was a consummate, confident professional and one who was afraid of his own shadow.

Peter walked into the room and cleared his throat, trying not to startle Neal.

“Peter,” Neal acknowledged without looking away from his work.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Good, good. The acid content in the parchment is quite high, so it absorbed a lot smoke. The time in the ozone gas chamber certainly helped, but there’s still a lot of cleaning to do.”

“Do you have an idea of when you’ll know something about the artist?”

“I already have an idea, but I’m going to keep it to myself until I can confirm.” Neal was fairly certain he knew not only the artist, but at the very least the group of works that the etching came from. He enjoyed being able to use his expertise and it _was_ intriguing to be sharing it with the FBI.

“Neal, if you have something… I really need to hear it.”

“You will, as soon as I’m sure.”

Peter held up his hands. “Okay. In the meantime we’ve got a new lead to follow up on. Snow White... a phrase we decoded from a suspected Dutchman communique from Barcelona. We got a hit on it at JFK.”

“We? Does that mean you want me to come to the airport?” Neal asked hesitantly.

Peter hadn’t meant we, as in him and Neal, but maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take the kid along. Everything the Dutchman did as a forger had something to do with art. And, he liked this Neal, the self-possessed and knowledgeable man, and he really liked the idea of seeing more of him. “Yeah, I think it would be good.”

***

Diana was waiting for them in the terminal building.

“What’ve we got?” Peter asked.

“His name's Tony Field. Customs flagged him coming in from Spain in response to our Snow White BOLO,” Diana supplied.

“Customs playing nice?”

Diana shrugged. “Ah, the usual chest pounding. He's in their custody, not ours.”

Peter shrugged. “Less paperwork for me. What's he carrying?”

“Oh, you're gonna love this.” She led them through a security door and into a room in the bowels of the airport.

Littering a couple of tables in the room were two old, blue hard-backed suitcases and what looked like a couple hundred copies of the same book. “Blanca Nieves y Los Siete Enanos?” Peter asked as he picked up one of the volumes.

“Snow White and her Seven Little Men,” Neal provided.

Peter looked at him, with a raised eyebrow. Art and languages. “This is what triggered our alert? What do we know about this guy?”

Diana answered. ”Says he’s a rare book dealer.”

“Anything wrong with his paperwork?”

“Nope, he brought in the same books, in the same quantity on three previous trips. He declared them each time.”

Peter looked around him in frustration. “Are we wasting our time?”

“They’re not limited runs or special editions; can’t be worth much.” Neal offered as he inspected one of the red-covered books on the table in front of him.

“So why go to all the trouble of flying them in?” Peter asked.

Neal shrugged, he honestly couldn’t think of any reason. “Good question.”

“He sure is nervous for having all the right paperwork,” Diana chimed in.

“I want to talk to him.” Peter decided.

“I’ll set it up,” Diana replied before heading out to do just that.

Forty-five minutes and one surprising and horrible turn of events later, they were back where they started from, standing in a room with a couple hundred, more or less worthless copies of Snow White.

“We’ve got a dead book dealer, a killer ‘lawyer’ and a bunch of worthless books.” Peter turned to Neal. “All right come on, as an art expert what is the Dutchman’s interest in these?

Neal leaned over the table and flipped open the cover of one of the books. Peter could see the younger man’s wheels spinning as he tapped a pen against the pages.

“Published in 1944 in Madrid,” Neal muttered, as he tried to puzzle out why _these_ books. He bumped it around in his brain with what he suspected about the etching and suddenly the significance dawned on him. “This is what he’s after.” Neal exclaimed, sliding the pen under the paper.

“The top sheet?”

“More than that. This is a piece of 1944 Spanish press parchment.”

“That’s what he wanted, good!” Peter asserted, as he moved toward Neal. The kid was smart and Peter did indeed like seeing this side of him. He also liked having more to go on. He was getting closer and closer to the Dutchman. “He’s going to counterfeit something that was originally printed on paper like that.”

“That’s what I would do, if I ever did anything of the sort.”

Peter smiled at the ridiculous thought of Neal Caffrey as a forger and a thief. “Tony made three prior shipments of these.”  
  
Neal nodded. “Two blank pages per book is 600 sheets.”

“Too many for paintings, not enough for currency,” Peter theorized. “I bet our dead book dealer knew. Diana, where's that wallet?”

“It's right here,” she replied, handing the book dealer’s wallet to her boss.

Peter riled through the divides in the leather wallet until he found an entrance ticket to the National Archive and dropped it on the table. “This is where he went, the day before he left for Spain.”

***

The drive back to the city from JFK was uncomfortably quiet. Neal sat in the passenger street staring out the side window.

“Big plans for the holidays?” Peter asked, trying to break through the awkwardness.

Neal turned in his seat and looked at Peter briefly before returning his gaze out the window. “No.”

Strike one. Peter tried again.

“Of course there’s also the anniversary to deal with.”

“I’m sorry?” Neal stuttered, turning to face Peter again. Why would Peter mention his anniversary of all things? Was he being obtuse or just cruel?

“Oh, mine and my wife’s,” Peter continued. We got married on Christmas Eve so that I could never be guilty of forgetting our anniversary. I’m kind of notorious for that sort of thing.”

The inside of the car was lit only by the streetlights and the red and green glow of the decorated buildings they passed, but Peter thought he saw Neal’s face pale.

He soldiered on nonetheless. “Of course, I still manage to take it right in the teeth most years. I promised El something special this year and I still haven’t come up with anything better than a corner booth at Donatella’s and a romp in the sheets.”

Neal’s words were sharp. “Skip the dinner.”

“We’ve been married a decade. That doesn’t cut it anymore,” Peter replied, ignoring Neal’s tone.

Peter thought he heard a ‘hmph’ come from the younger man as he turned back to the window again, ending the conversation. The strange, nearly anti-social version of the art restorer was back and Peter had no idea what had caused his return.  
  
***

“You comin’ to bed tonight?” El asked as she rounded the corner into the dining room, wearing only one of Peter’s pajama tops.

“Yeah.” Peter replied with a sigh.

El came up behind the chair Peter was sitting in and wrapped her arms around him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t tell me it’s Neal Caffrey? Of course it is, or you’d be in bed with me,” she teased. “Can he help you find the Dutchman?”

“Neal’s smart. You know how much I like smart.”

“Is he as smart as those Ivy League coeds they keep throwing at you?”

El’s smile was bright and warm and Peter suddenly remembered how lucky he was to have her as his wife. “He’s almost as brilliant as the woman I married.”

“Oh good answer! So what’s the problem?”

“There’s more to him. It’s like he’s two sides of one coin, the educated, bright art restorer and this strange guy who seems like he’s out of place wherever he is.”

“You going to figure him out tonight, here at the dining room table?”

“Unlikely,” Peter conceded.

“Then come to bed.”

***

“It’s a Goya.”

“What?” Peter asked as he entered the conference room where Neal was working.  
  
“The etching, it’s by Francisco Goya. One of his Disasters of War pieces. It’s Plate 44, titled _Yo lo vi, I saw this._ Look here.” Neal pointed to the etching. Peter walked over and leaning in next to Neal.

“In all the published editions, there is this surface tone over the landscape, the sky, and the woman's dress. In the proofs printed under Goya's supervision, there is no tone. There’s no tone here. Goya witnessed this moment in the war against France, went home and created the copper plate for this image and then printed it in his own shop.” The reverence and excitement in Neal’s voice was a delight to hear.

“Are you sure?” Peter asked.

Neal looked at him, an _are you really questioning me look?_ plain on his outrageously handsome face. “I told you I wouldn’t say anything until I was certain.”

“Okay.” Peter said with a nod. “Come on, we’re going to go to the National Archives and see if we can’t find out what our book dealer was doing there.”

***

“Yes, I do remember him. He was an odd sort of man. He came by several months ago, oh and then again last week. This is what he came to see.” The curator of the Archives carefully placed a sheet of parchment down on the table before them. “The Spanish victory bond. He took several photographs of it. Said he was going to write a book. It’s a shame he’s dead. This bond does have a fascinating history.”

Neal bent in close, looking carefully at the brightly colored page. “It’s a Goya.” All the dots were lining up and Neal felt a thrill run up his spine.

“Yes. Beautiful isn’t it?” The archivist concurred.

Peter pulled a piece of the Snow White topsheet paper from his pocket, unfolded it and held it over the bond. “Oh, look at that. A perfect fit.”

“You said it had a fascinating history.” Neal said, turning his head to look back at the curator.

“Quite it was issued during the war.”

“1944,” Neal interrupted.  
  
“Yes. The U.S. issued it to support the Spanish underground in their battle against the Axis. Very few have ever been redeemed.”

Peter was watching Neal as the curator spoke. The younger man was glowing.

“There is speculation that entire boxes were captured and many of them are still hidden away in the caves of Altamira.”  
  
“Whole boxes of these?” Peter asked incredulous.

“Yeah, boy that would be something, wouldn’t it?” The curator smiled at the possibility. This is the only surviving copy,” he added.

“Except it’s a forgery,” Neal stated matter-of-factly.

“That’s not possible,” the curator insisted.

“What are you talking about?” Peter asked skeptically.

“Ah, it’s the ink.” Neal replied confidently. “This is iron-gal dye mixed to match period colors but it hasn’t dried yet. You can still smell the gum Arabic.” Neal lifted the parchment up from the table for Peter and the curator’s inspection.  
  
“No, this has been here since 1952,” the archivist insisted.

Neal shook his head. “It’s been here less than a week.”  
  
***

“We’re confirmed the bond is counterfeit?” Peter asked as he turned away from the expansive view of the city at night that the conference room windows afforded. Sitting at the table were Clinton, Diana and Neal, his chair tilted back and his Italian leather shoes resting on the table.  
  
“Yup, it’s a fake,” Clinton answered.  
  
“Okay, Tony makes two trips. The first time he takes a picture of the bond. The second trip in, he steals the original and replaces it with this copy. Can we confirm that?”

Jones nodded. “The timed ink identification test puts the age of the bond at approximately six days. Which coincides with Tony’s visit.”

“We’re pulling surveillance video to back it up,” Diana added.

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “Good. So the question is why go to the trouble of making a really nice forgery, on the right kind of paper, just to stick it back in the archives?”

Neal steepled his fingers under his chin. “Is the bond still negotiable?”

“It’s a zero option so it never expires,” Peter replied. “What’s it worth?”

Clinton raised his eyebrows. “One thousand dollars at face value drawing nine percent interest.”

“Compounded over 64 years,” Diana added. She pulled up a calculator and began punching in the numbers while Clinton watched over her shoulder.

Quickly Neal did the math in his head. “Two hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars.”

“What he said,” Clinton confirmed.

“A quarter of a million. Not chump change. And he’s got six hundred sheets of this stuff,” Peter said.

Diana turned and looked at Neal expectantly instead of relying on the calculator again.

Neal took a moment to think it through. “One hundred million… give or take.”

Art, languages and now math. Peter couldn’t help but be impressed. He pulled his thoughts away from Neal and back to the Dutchman. “He’d be a rich man if he could pass them off. But it still doesn’t tell us why he would take out the real bond and put in a forgery.”

Neal turned it over in his mind. What would be the point of replacing the original? “I think it does. What if he claimed he found boxes of the original bonds?”

“Dragged them out of those caves in Spain,” Peter continued.

“Yeah, how would they be authenticated?” Neal prompted feeling a rumble of exhilaration as he pushed to get his new FBI associates to see where he was going.

Peter answered. “They would be taken to the archives and compared to the original.”

Neal nodded. “Which he has already switched out with one of his own copies.”

“So of course they’re going to match. Oh this is good. This is really good.” Neal liked the excitement in Peter’s voice. And he really liked that he had a part in putting it there. It had been harder than he had hoped it would be to step out the safe corner of the world that he had created for himself over the past year, but in the few days that he had been working within the confines of the FBI building, Neal had started to remember that there were still good things, and good people out there, if he could find a way to make the effort.

***

At home in his apartment that night, Neal was sitting at his dining room table closely examining a replica of the forged bond when he heard June’s distinctive knock on his door.

“Come in, June.”

His landlady was dressed with her usual elegance in a black pantsuit and matching heels. “Neal, how was your day?”

Neal considered the question. It had been a long time since June had felt the need to ask him that. “It was good. I was able to restore enough of the etching to determine that it was Goya’s _yo lo vi_. And, I helped Peter discover what the Dutchman is up to.”

June put her hand on Neal’s cheek and gently followed the curve of his smile with her thumb. “It’s so good to see you smile.”

Neal nodded against her palm. “It’s good to have a reason to feel like smiling again.”

The smile faded and Neal sighed. “I just…”

June pulled one of the dining chairs close and sat beside him. “Neal, it is not a betrayal of Kate to enjoy your life, to find fulfillment, to be the whole and happy man you were before you lost her.”

Neal nodded, because he knew that was the correct response and the one June would want.

But as usual, June read right through him. “You know she wouldn’t want this for you.”

“I know, but she was the one June, my Byron, and I miss her so much.” Tears came unbidden to the corners of his eyes, falling down his cheeks and into his beard.

June smiled, a sad, nostalgic smile, and took Neal’s hand in hers. “I will always miss him, more than words can express, but his spirit, his exuberance for life, his passion, it lives in me and so I go on and find the joy in my life for the both of us.”

“I want to June, I really do.”

“You will. Let Peter, and this FBI case help.”

Neal nodded again. “I’m trying,” he replied sincerely.

“Good.” She released his hand and patted it encouragingly. “Now, have you had dinner?”

Neal shook his head. “I’m not very hungry.”

She smiled knowingly at him. “I’ll have Cecelia bring something up.” Then she got up and left his apartment.

***

Peter got up later than he had planned, finished up in the bathroom quickly, and pulled on his dress shirt as he headed down the stairs guided by the smell of fresh coffee… to find someone who looked a lot like Neal Caffrey sitting on his couch, next to his wife.

The hair was right, too long and slicked back over his forehead. The startling blue eyes were right too. But overnight the long, shaggy beard had disappeared and now Neal Caffrey, who had been stunningly handsome with it, was Greek-god gorgeous without it, as he sat next to his equally beautiful wife in a black turtleneck sweater and grey slacks.

“Good morning honey,” El greeted him brightly.  
  
“Peter,” Neal’s smile was warm and radiant. Peter liked it.

“You’re on my couch,” Peter noted, half in jest and half seriously, since he had no idea how Neal found out where he lived.  
  
“I came to talk to you. And frankly Peter I have to say I’m surprised that you have such an amazing wife.”  
  
“Yeah, I like her,” Peter deadpanned. “Get off my couch,” he added, deciding to continue with the lighthearted banter.

“Honey, we’re just chatting,” Elizabeth said, playing along.

“Chatting? How did you get here?” He asked Neal.

“Cab,” Neal answered with a small shake of his head. This was fun, he thought, he was actually having fun, and it felt - good.

“You shouldn’t even have my address, yet you’re in my house, on my couch, with my wife.” Peter tried, but he couldn’t keep the smirk off his face.

The Burkes’ lab choose that moment to worm his way between Neal’s knees. “Oh, hey Satchmo.”

“And, now you’re petting my dog,” Peter exclaimed with mock exasperation.

Neal returned his attention to the FBI agent. “Did you really put Elizabeth under surveillance before you asked her out?” He asked. “Peter, I underestimated you.”

“You told him?” Peter asked his wife.

“He said he wanted to make sure I wasn’t seeing anybody else.” El said to Neal. Then she looked to her husband. “Honey, I think it’s cute.”  
  
“My wife would have thought so too.” Neal was caught up in the moment, enjoying the repartee and the way he felt, so at ease with Peter and El, and so the thought entered his mind and left his mouth before he had a chance to consider it. It was the first time he had mentioned Kate to anyone other than June since the funeral, nearly a year ago.

As soon as he spoke, Neal’s whole demeanor changed. His shoulders tightened, his gaze fell to his lap and the smile disappeared from his face.

Peter felt the change as much as he saw it, and he suddenly knew he had found the source of Neal’s stranger side. Something terrible had happened with his wife.

Silence prevailed in the room for a very long minute and then Neal cleared his throat and said quietly, “I know who the Dutchman is.”

“Enlighten me,” Peter’s tone was gently prodding.

Neal took a breath and continued. “Curtis Hagen. He’s an art restorer. One of the best in the business. But he’s never been able to claim the top spot.” Peter remembered the name from the list Diana had drawn up, and he knew why Hagen had never been able to claim the best in the business title; Neal had never given it up.

“He’s particularly good at Goya restorations. That’s what this is Peter. The bond is him showing off.”

Peter nodded. “Interesting theory. How do you prove it?”

“He signed it.”

“I think we might have noticed a signature in the corner.”

Elizabeth put her hand on Neal’s forearm. “Show him,” she said encouragingly.

Neal picked up a mirror and held it out to Peter. “Look at the pants on the Spanish peasant. What do you see?”

Peter leaned over the copy of the bond that sat on his coffee table, located the peasant and gazed at his yellow pants through the glass.

“I don’t know. A battleship?”

“Ah no, it’s the initials C and H.”

Peter looked up at him skeptically. “I don’t know. That’s a stretch.”

“Peter, this bond is a masterpiece. If I had ever done something like this, this well, I would have signed it. Hagen is doing a church restoration on West Eighth Street. We can stop by on our way in to the office.”

“Fine meet me in the car.”

Neal nodded, but stayed seated on the couch.

“I’m going to say goodbye to my wife.”

Neal’s eyebrows shot up in understanding and he stood. “It was nice to meet you.” Neal said politely, shaking Elizabeth’s hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

Once Neal had stepped outside, Peter put on his coat and then pulled his wife into a hug. “I’ll call you at lunch.”

“No,” she said with a smile, “You’ll lose track of time and forget.”

Peter nodded, acknowledging the truth of her statement. He thought of Neal suddenly and wished very much that it wasn’t true that he forgot to call to his wife, that he made promises to her that he didn’t keep. “See you at dinner.”

“Let’s shoot for that.” El gazed at him with a devilish twinkle in her eye. “I like him - Neal. He’s sweet and funny and smart.”

“And, you know how much I like smart.”

El nodded and kissed him. “I do.”

“Love you,” Peter said tightening his hold on his wife.

“Love you too.”

 

 


	2. A Christmas Pilot Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A retelling of Pilot set during the holiday season where Neal was never a criminal, but he and Peter strike a deal (or two) nonetheless.

“This is it?” Peter asked as they started up the main aisle of the church on West Eighth Street.

“Yup.”

The building was obviously under renovation, scaffolding graced the front of the church, along with a field of white drop clothes and cans of paint and painting paraphernalia.

As they began to walk up the aisle, an older, grey-haired priest approached them. “You can’t come in. The church is closed for restoration.”

“Oh, sorry father,” Neal responded.

Peter thought fast and went with the first thing that came to him. “Can we just have a minute?” He asked the man. The priest nodded and then Peter put his arm around his shoulder and directed him back down the aisle, out of Neal’s earshot.

“Father, please father. My friend is having a crisis of the soul.”

The priest lifted his eyebrows in skepticism.

“He recently lost his wife. And, he’s having a very difficult time.”

“It’s very common with men in his situation. Unfortunately, very common.”

“And I want to confront him about this before he lets it destroy him. He is a mess, but he is very spiritual. I know this is the place where my words will have the most effect.”

The priest looked at Peter, concerned, but still resolute. “This is the city of churches. We’re closed. Surely there is another place…”

Peter put it in overdrive. “This is where he was married,” he added quickly.  
  
The priest breathed a sigh and then nodded. “Five minutes.”

“Thank you, thank you father.”

Peter turned and walked back to Neal. “Sorry about that. We have five.”

Neal looked at Peter, wondering what the older man could possibly have told the priest to gain them admittance. “Did you just lie to a priest?”

“Nope.” Peter didn’t elaborate. He didn’t feel great about using what little he knew about Neal’s obvious pain to help them solve this case, but if working to solve the case helped heal some of that pain, then maybe it would all balance out in the end.

The continued up the aisle to the transept where the Church’s artwork was in the process of being restored.

“Extraordinary,” Neal said as he examined the frescos before him.

“Real nice. How does this relate to the bond?”

Neal climbed over a small railing to get a closer look. In the pattern on a hem of a dress in one the frescoes he saw them, the C and the H.

“Look, C and H.” He motioned to Peter, who climbed over the rail to join him.

Peter scanned the area that Neal had pointed to. “Where?”

Neal put his finger right up against the spot where the letters were painted into the design. “Right there, C, H.”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe, it looks a diamond to me.”

Neal shook his head at Peter’s feigned obtuseness. “Ah, it’s a C and an H. You know the alphabet right?”

“What am I looking at?”

Neal pointed again. “Right here. In this diamond. It’s the only one that has a C in it.”

“It looks like an arrowhead to me.” Peter replied, baiting Neal just a little.

“Um, yes, but this isn’t Indian art. You know the alphabet, that’s a c and an h.” Neal knew that Peter was playing with him. This banter between the two of them was starting to become routine and Neal liked it, even when it was sort of frustrating.

Peter squinted at the fresco. “Am I looking at the round…”

“The square one, the square one.”  
  
“Hmmm, maybe.”

“Can I help you gentleman?” Neal had been concentrating on the fresco and on his enjoyment of Peter’s companionship, so he missed the approach of the man behind them. When he turned around, he was face to face with the man they suspected of forging the Goya, Curtis Hagen.

Hagen squinted up at Neal. “Your face, it’s familiar.”

Neal stepped back over the railing and held out his hand. “Neal Caffrey.”

“Forgive me if I don’t shake hands with a competitor,” Hagen’s British accent seemed to get stronger with the sarcasm.

“Think of me more as an admirer,” Neal countered.

“Admirer or no, I’m concerned about having you in my space,” Hagen replied dismissively. Then he turned his attention on Peter. “And you are?”  
  
“Just a friend,” Peter replied nonchalantly as he climbed back over the railing to stand beside Neal.

“Well friend, this church is closed.” There was an unmistakable edge of venom in Hagen’s voice.

Peter took the hint and put his hand on the small of Neal’s back and began to lead the younger man back down the aisle of the church.

“Did you see it?” Neal asked when they were nearly at the end of the nave.

“You’ve got me curious. We’ll check him out.”

***

  
  
Back at the office they went their separate ways, Neal to his confiscated conference room to continue his restoration and Peter to his office to get down to digging into Hagen - and Neal.

By the end of the day he hadn’t learned much more about their suspected Dutchman, but he had learned something simply heartbreaking about his expert.

That night, over dinner, he told El about Neal’s Christmas wedding two years ago, and how his beautiful wife was killed just one year later when their private plane blew up on the runaway when a gas line cracked in the freezing December weather.

“No wonder he’s been hiding himself away for the last year.”

Peter could only nod. Telling the tale had made his throat tighten and tears well in his eyes. Just imagining the magnitude of Neal’s loss was enough to make him emotional. He had no idea how he would manage to go on if he ever lost El.

His ever-perceptive wife saw the sadness he couldn’t keep from being revealed on his face and reached across the table to take his hand. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. In fact, you’re going to be stuck with me for a very long time, Peter Burke.”

“I hope so.” He knew he wasn’t as good as he should be at showing El how much he loved and appreciated her. He didn’t yet know how he was going to do it, but he would find a way to make this anniversary special. He would find a way to let her know that she was the best thing that would ever happen to him.

“I know so, Mister. Now, what are we going to do to help Neal?”

Peter sighed. “More of what I’ve been doing, I guess. Keeping him working with me on this case. Help keep his mind in the present, instead of the past.”

“That’s a good start.”

That mischievous smile was back on his wife’s face. “You have some other ideas?” Peter asked.

“I might be working on one or two.”

***

Neal didn’t show up at the office the next morning. Peter tried calling his cell and it went straight to voicemail, something Peter was all too familiar with from before they started working together. So he took a drive uptown to June’s Riverside Drive mansion.

June herself opened the door. “Peter? Neal left for your office nearly two hours ago.”

Peter grimaced. “He never arrived.”

June sighed. Peter wondered if she had experienced a disappearing Neal before.

“Do you know where he could be?”

“I’m afraid I do. 177 Prince Street. The apartment on the top floor. Would you be a dear and go and get him. Bring him home or better yet, take him to your office. Let him help you with the Dutchman.” She took Peter’s hand. “You’re helping him as much as he’s helping you, perhaps more.”

Peter nodded, honored and honestly a bit frightened by June’s admission. “I’ll go find him.”

The address that June had given him was for a loft in Soho. Peter used his badge to get into the building and made his way up to the apartment. The door to the loft was open and Peter walked in without knocking to find the place nearly empty. An old bicycle sat against one wall, a filing cabinet against another, and sitting on the floor, against a pillar in the center of the expansive room, sat Neal holding an old Bordeaux bottle.

“So, I was wondering if I could get your help with something,” Peter said as he circled the space.

“Do you have more information on Hagen?” Neal asked dully.

“No, Diana has that back at the office.” Peter didn’t know if he was taking the right tack, but it was all he could come up with, and it was worth a shot. “I’ve been going through my wife’s visa bill, you know trying to come up with a solution for our anniversary.”

Neal held his gaze on the bottle in his hands.

“I’ve got it all. Her ebay bids, video rentals, library books. Thank you Patriot Act.”

“So you’re stalking your wife?” Neal asked, hesitantly.

Peter shrugged. “That might be one way of putting it.”

“You figure out what she likes?”

“Yup, it’s all in the summaries, pottery making, Nancy Drew mysteries, the Princess Bride, scented candles, Oleander, Harrison Ford, old jazz, anything Italian except anchovies.”

Neal cleared his throat. “I don’t think you’re going to find your answer tucked into a list of her old ebay bids.

Peter crossed his fingers hoping he wasn’t crossing a line. Then he crouched down in front of Neal. “Then help me out here. What would you do?”

Neal turned the bottle over in his hands again. “Do you know what this is?”

“It looks like an ’82 Bordeaux. Pricey, they cost what, 800 bucks a pop?”  
  
“It does when it’s full. I got it empty.” Neal’s lips turned up in a sad smile.

“Empty?”

It was desperately hard to talk about his wife, but for some reason, it was getting easier, at least with Peter. “When Kate, my wife, and I first met, we had nothing. So I got this bottle and I used to fill it up with whatever I could afford and we would sit here in this crappy apartment and drink it over cold pizza and pretend we were living in the Cote d’Azur.”

“How’d that work out for you?” Peter prompted.

“It was a promise of a better life. One that we got to share for a minute and half before she was killed.” There were tears in Neal’s eyes. “Make Elizabeth any promises Peter? And you think what she really wants is Oleander candles?”

Peter shook his head. “Yeah, and no.”

Peter stood and reached his hand down to Neal. “Come on, we’ve got a Dutchman with a British accent to catch.”

Neal hesitated. This place, with its beat up walls, faulty HVAC system, and film-coated windows was his past. One that he would do anything to get back. But Kate was gone and these walls held nothing but memories. Memories he could take with him, if he moved forward.

He took Peter’s hand and let the FBI agent pull him easily up to his feet.

***

Later that afternoon, Neal was sitting with Peter in his office going over what they had on Hagen, when Diana walked in. “Hagen is leaving the country. He booked a flight though a private charter company in Barcelona for the 23rd.”  
  
Peter scowled. “Three days, dammit Neal seeing you must have tipped him off.”

“He’s going to Spain, that’s something,” Neal offered.

“Is there any connection to the books, or the bonds or the murder?” Peter asked.

Diana shook her head. “Hagen is impressive as hell. A lot of international holdings, but he keeps himself out of the muck.”

Peter was furious at the prospect of losing years’ worth of work on this case. “Get every available agent on this. You know the good ones. Steal them if you have to. I want to know every single thing about this guy. I don’t want any excuses. Anything gets in your way…”

“Forge your signature. Always do,” Diana confessed as she headed back out of the office.  
  
“That’s what I want to hear!”

When Diana was gone, Peter turned back to Neal. “If you’re right about Hagen, we have three days to connect him to the bond. If we lose him, on the 23rd…” Peter shook his head.

***

Neal went home that night, let himself out onto the balcony and stared up at the stars. It was freezing, but he hardly noticed. December 23rd, the anniversary of Kate’s death. In three more days Neal would have somehow managed to live a year without her.

The simple act of living had been easy at first. June, who was a dear friend and an early patron of his work, had taken him in. She had made sure he had a bed to sleep in, food to eat, wine with which to drown his sorrows. After a time, she slowly and carefully began vetting job offers for him, at first just one here and there, things he would find intriguing for clients who were understanding and generous. And then a few more. And before he realized it, summer had come and he was working every day on the balcony in the sun. Still, he didn’t leave the mansion often. People asked questions he didn’t want to answer. And, it was hard to watch life go on without the woman who meant everything to him, who had in fact been his life.

When Peter Burke had called, Neal had admittedly been intrigued. He had always seen the task of art restoration as solving mysteries. What had the original artist intended this color to be? What emotion was he trying to convey with that brush stroke? What story was he trying to tell? So the idea of helping the FBI solve a real mystery was tempting and frightening. Dealing with people he didn’t know, who didn’t know him; he hadn’t thought he was ready to do that.

But Peter had persisted and then June had done what she had spent the past year doing and pushed him gently, telling him in her own way that this was something that he should do. And so he had.

It was good to feel useful, to feel like he was doing something for someone other than himself, to feel just a little bit, like a part of the world again. Even more he liked Peter. The older man was gruff, inelegant even, but he had a kindness that Neal couldn’t really describe. He was easy to be with, he didn’t treat Neal like someone who was damaged. He didn’t ask for more than Neal could give, he didn’t expect anything other than Neal’s expertise.

But one way or another Neal’s time with the FBI, with Peter, was going to come to an end in three days. If you had asked him a week ago, he would have said no, he wanted nothing to do with the FBI, or with the Dutchman, or with Peter Burke, but now…

Now, if it was going to end, he wanted it to end well, with Hagen behind bars. Determined Neal stepped back inside his apartment. He had some phone calls to make.

***

Early the next morning Neal knocked tentatively on Peter’s office door. Peter turned away from his desk and smiled before waving Neal into the office.

“You figure out your anniversary plans yet?” Neal asked once he had stepped inside.

“I’m getting close. Very close,” Peter replied.

“So you’ve nothing?

Peter nodded. “Nothing, but I’ll find it.”

“Well, I found Hagen.” It was hard not to be excited about what he had discovered, but Neal kept his voice even.

“Where?” Peter asked immediately.

“There’s this warehouse, down by the docks. Hagen runs it through a shell corporation out of Guatemala.”

Peter looked at him skeptically. “We didn’t know about this? How did you?”

“I don’t’ think you rely on rumor as much as I do.”

“Neal-“

Neal held up his hand to forestall Peter’s further questioning. “Peter, I run in the same circles as Hagen, or at least I used to. And, I know a lot of people, who know a lot of things about the very small circle of art restoration.”  
  
Peter couldn’t argue with that. “Let’s go.”

***

An hour later they found themselves down by the docks in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The address Neal had gotten was for a large, plain metal building with a corrugated roof. From around the corner of a nearby structure Neal and Peter scoped out the warehouse. Outside stood four large men, who looked like they were trying hard to blend into the scenery, just dock workers on a break. They were failing.

“Check out the security,” Neal said pointing his thumb in the direction of the muscle for hire.

Peter shrugged. “So they’ve got themselves some plain wrapped guards and they keep a low profile. So do half the warehouses in this harbor. I need more than that. I need more.”

Just then a truck began to move through the space between them and the guards. With no more than a moment’s hesitation Neal booked out from their hiding space and scrunched up behind the wheels of the truck. Peter was right behind him. They moved right past the four men and around the side of the warehouse.

When they were clear, Neal tucked himself up against the metal wall to see if he could hear what might be going on inside. Excitement crawled up his spine. “Do you hear that, Peter?”

“Hear what?”

“Kind of a shush shush.” He couldn’t keep his feelings from coloring his voice. “That’s a press. Dammit Peter that’s a printing press. He’s printing the bonds in there right now.”

That piqued Peter’s interest. “How long until they’re done?”

Neal shrugged. “A multi-color print job as complicated as the Goya. Test proofs, ink formulation, perfect registration, he’ll be running it for days. Probably until just before he leaves to catch his flight to Barcelona.”

Peter pulled out his cell and dialed. Moments later his probie answered. “Diana?”

“Yeah boss?”

“We need recording equipment down here immediately.”

“You got it boss.”

Four hours later Neal and Peter were back in Peter’s office listening to a replay of what the recording engineers got from the warehouse.

When the playback finished Peter turned to Neal. “We’re good. It’s a Heidelberg windmill platens press manufactured in 1942. I’m on board. Hagen is our guy.” Peter sighed. “But we still don’t have enough for a warrant.”

Neal was incredulous. “We know the bonds are there. Just open the door.”  
  
Peter slid a faux leather-bound tome across his desk to Neal. “Um hm. You should read this. Warrant law. All I’ve got is a sound coming out of a warehouse and no way to link him to the bonds.”

***

Very early the next morning Neal lay on the sofa in his apartment in his red silk pajama bottoms scanning the book on Warrant Law. Peter had of course been correct. He couldn’t get a warrant with the information that they had and he couldn’t just walk in without tainting all the evidence they might find. There had to be some way to get Peter and his team in there legitimately.

Neal shut the book and placed it on the floor beside the sofa. There was one way, it was crazy and impetuous and impulsive as hell, things he hadn’t been since Kate’s death.

It was his impetuousness that had brought them together in the first place when he was just starting his career. She was the hostess at a charity dinner that Vincent Adler was throwing. He was one of the world’s foremost art collectors and had huge pull in most of the world’s best museums. So Neal faked his way into the event, switched his place card with Adler’s girlfriend’s and managed to get two minutes to convince Adler to hire him to do some restoration work for him.

It was a thrilling victory, but the best part of the evening was meeting Kate; the shine of her blue eyes when she realized how he had impishly wormed his way into the event and onto Adler’s radar.

Neal had been in love the moment he saw her. Kate took some convincing, but every moment of the time that had taken, and every moment they had after that, had been irreplaceable.

It was time to start being the man that Kate eventually fell in love with again. Determined, Neal got up, got dressed and borrowed the keys to June’s Jag.

Not long after sunrise, Neal brazenly pulled the Jag up right in front of the warehouse and got out with his camera in hand. In full view of the guards he began snapping pictures of the whole area.

Almost immediately one of the goons approached him. “Hey, hey!”

“Hey there,” Neal replied with a small wave, before resuming his picture taking.

“You can’t be here,” the guy said.

“Oh, I’m taking a photography class over at the annex and pictures of rusty sheet metal are a surefire A.”

The guard signaled to two of his buddies and in moments they had grabbed him on either side.

“You must be doing some kind of surveillance,” one of them stated.

Neal rolled his eyes. Not the brightest bunch, as he had hoped.

“He’s not a cop,” the first guy concluded. “Okay take him in. And go get Hagen.”

The men dragged Neal into the warehouse where stacks of Blanca Nieves y los Siete Enanos sat on pallets next to the running printing press. The press itself was quite obviously churning out copies of the Spanish Victory bond. Neal smiled to himself.

The men grabbed the camera from his hands, but didn’t bother to search him before tossing him into a glass-paneled office in the center of the space.

As soon as they shut the door behind him, Neal turned away, pulled his phone from the pocket of his pea coat and dialed Peter’s number.

“Hello, Neal?”

“Um, hey Peter. I’m calling to make an official report. I’m being held against my will in a warehouse in the Brooklyn Navy Yard.”

“Excuse me?”

“I would really appreciate it if you could, you know, send in the cavalry.”

“I’m on my way. And Neal, please don’t do anything stupid… anything else stupid.”

“I’ll try.”

Neal hung up, stashed the phone back in his pocket, turned back around and while no one was watching, locked the door to the office.

Twenty minutes later, Hagen showed up striding angrily toward the office where Neal stood before an antique desk.

“What exactly is going on here?” Neal knew the moment that Hagen recognized him. “Why’d you bring him inside?” He asked his henchmen angrily.

“He was taking pictures,” one of them replied as if that was explanation enough for their actions.

With murderous intent clear in his eyes Hagen attempted to enter the office. It rattled, but the lock held. “Open the door!” He commanded.

Neal smiled back at him, somehow enjoying the moment, despite the danger.

“You’re a dead man,” Hagen yelled.

Neal leaned toward the door and shrugged. “That’s sounds like inch-thick Lexan.”

Hagen signaled to one of his men, who rushed off. Turning back to Neal he said, “Keys are on the way.”

Neal rapped his knuckles on the top of the huge desk. “Nice,” he commented as sat down on its surface. There were two wooden boxes beside him. One was clearly a humidor. When he opened the second, he found the original victory bond. He smiled and then looked back to Hagen. “You shouldn’t have signed the bonds,” he said. “I’m no stranger to vanity myself so I understand the impulse.”

Hagen sneered. “I’m gonna to kill you. I hope whatever they’re giving you is worth it.”

Neal thought about it for a moment. What was he getting exactly? He had spent more time out of his apartment in the last week than he had in the last year. He had met good people. He was engaging in life again, with a smile even. For the first time since Kate had died, he was looking forward to what came next. “It is.”

From outside the sound of approaching sirens could be heard. Peter was here and not a moment too soon.

“You are a particular kind of bastard,” Hagen said to Neal as the reality of the situation became obvious. He turned back to his crew. “Grab the bonds. Everybody let’s go. Come on.”

Moments later the doors broke open and FBI agents wearing bullet-proof vests and carrying semi-automatic weapons swarmed the space, Peter and Diana trailing them.

“Hands in the air!” Someone yelled. It took no time at all for Hagen and his men to be rounded up and placed in cuffs.

Peter smiled as he spotted Neal safely ensconced within the office. Neal unlocked the door and then hopped back up to his perch on the desk. He grabbed two cigars from the humidor and offered one to Peter as the older man joined him.

Peter took Neal’s offering and then peering into the other box on the desk. “Is that the original victory bond?”

“Yes, yes it is,” Neal replied, pride and true happiness radiating through his voice.

***

The day after they had nailed Hagen with a warehouse full of evidence, including one kidnapped consultant, Peter returned to the mansion on Riverside Drive. This time when he knocked on Neal’s door the younger man opened it wide and stepped aside to let Peter in. While his demeanor had certainly changed, Neal looked tired and if Peter wasn’t wrong, sad.

“Peter.”

“Neal. You doing okay?” Peter asked as he stepped into Neal’s apartment.

Neal smiled faintly and nodded. He may not have known the kid for very long but Peter wasn’t fooled for a minute.

It was mid-afternoon, but an open bottle of red stood on the dining table with a half-full glass beside it.

“Can I join you?” Peter pointed toward the table and then walked over to the refrigerator. “I hope you have a beer in here.”

Before pulling the handle, Peter glanced at the door and noticed four lines of magnetic poetry stuck there:

“There your light is barely a whisper”

“Sleep bitter sleep”

“Music is honey”

“Fiddle together”

Peter raised an eyebrow, opened the fridge and ducked his head in in search of a beer. There was one bottle in the back, some small batch local brew. Not his usual taste, but it would work in a pinch.

Neal had returned to the table and was sipping from his glass so Peter took a seat across from him, twisted the cap off the bottle and took a long swig while he considered how to start this conversation.

“I thought about what you said,” he finally began.

Neal looked up at Peter questioningly. “Which was?”

“About promises. I found my bottle. El and I, we let a lot of time get away from us, between her company and the FBI. And, you were right, we don’t know how much time we’ll have together. I need to make sure she knows that every one of them is precious to me.”

Neal nodded. Peter could see the beginning of tears brightening the younger man’s eyes.

“I promised her a trip to the Caribbean a long time ago. I’m taking her to Belize for a week. We leave the day after Christmas.”

“She’ll love it. Good choice, Peter.”

“Yeah. Now I just need to come up with a special way to tell her.”

Neal smiled again and this time Peter could see something genuine lurking within it. “Leave that to me.”

Peter nodded. “Okay.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping at their drinks while Peter tried to come up with something to say that wouldn’t sound too stupid or overly cheesy. But, Neal beat him to it.

“I appreciate you coming by today, Peter.”

“I thought you might like some company for a while.”

Neal nodded. “I miss her.”

“I can only imagine and honestly I don’t want to,” Peter conceded.

“It’s getting better, most days, thanks to June and my work and… more recently you.”

Peter smiled and then reached over and placed his hand on top of Neal’s where it lay resting on the tabletop. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.”  
  
***

  
  
On Christmas Eve Peter took El to dinner, a corner booth at Donatella’s. But instead of going straight home afterward they drove to Riverside Drive. He led her up the stairs and before they headed outside to the patio, Peter pulled one of his ties out of his pocket and wrapped it gently around El’s head, covering her eyes. He didn’t want her to see what Neal had helped him arrange until she was standing in the midst of it.

He opened the patio door and led her out. She was smiling brilliantly despite the blindfold. “Careful, hon.”

“All right.” She stumbled slightly. “Oh.”

“All right,” Peter repeated.

“Honey?”

“Almost there,” he assured her as he led her farther out onto the patio.

“I think I’m getting sea sick.”

“A little farther.”

“Okay.”

They took a few more steps forward and then Peter stopped her. “All right. This is good. Now, I want you to keep your eyes closed,” Peter said as he reached to untie his tie.

“Oh, I promise.”

Peter moved over to the table and turned on a boom box. Calypso music filled the cold night air. “Okay, open them.”

El opened her eyes to find herself on a roof deck strung with white lights. The space was decorated like something out of the tropics complete with deck chairs, palm trees, an umbrella, and against one wall, a surfboard. Near the loungers sat a roaring brazier.

Peter stood awkwardly in the middle of it all. “Honey, you know how every year, I’m always promising you that we’re going to go to-“

“To the Caribbean.”

Peter looked around. “This is sort of what you wanted?”

“Well, I think if I keep my eyes closed,” she began, closing her eyes again. “I can actually imagine us being there.”

Peter took her by the hand and led her over to the fire pit.

“Ohhh, it’s getting warmer.”

“It is. Come here.” Peter gently pulled her with him as he sat down on the deck chair closest to the fire. El snuggled up against his chest. Peter handed her a beer and then grabbed one for himself.

“Huh, screw top,” El said with a smile.

“Cheesy?” Peter asked.

“It’s a little cheesy,” El confirmed. “But it’s sweet.”

“Maybe this will help.” He pulled the plane tickets out of his jacket and handed them to his wife. “Belize.”

“What?” She looked at the tickets in her hand, trying to figure out what Peter was saying.

“I found the time. We have a week. And two plane tickets and a seized villa in Sarteneja.”

“Where?”

“Oh, this really incredible beach front villa that the bureau seized from some narco trafficker. It's amazing.”

El stopped him, by placing her hand on his cheek. “Just tell me it’s nice?”

“It’s nice.”

“I love you.”

Peter looked at her and remembered Neal for a moment and then thought again about how damn lucky he was to have El in his life. “I love you.”

She smiled again and snuggled closer to him. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

***

Christmas day dawned bright and cold. The sky was a stunning crystal blue. Neal dressed in one of his favorite suits, the one Byron used to wear when he took June dancing. He added a bright red tie and pocket square to his outfit and then headed downstairs to share brunch with June, her children and her grandchildren.

It was bittersweet. He smiled as he watched the grandkids excitedly opening and playing with their gifts. But, then he thought about the children he would never have with Kate. Brunch was delicious and the chatter and laughter around the table were joyful. Neal knew he would always be welcome at this table, but he couldn’t help regretting that there was no table in his own happy family home to invite others to.

Once the gifts were all opened and the brunch dishes were cleared, Neal kissed June on the cheek, pulled on his overcoat and caught a cab out to Brooklyn, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

He hesitated at the top of the steps, not certain that he really belonged here, not certain of where he belonged at all.

Before he could turn away and head back onto the street, the door opened and there was Peter, a bright smile on his face. “Neal! You’re just in time.”

“Just in time?”

Peter nodded, took Neal by the elbow and guided him into the house. Neal’s arm where Peter was holding him felt warm and the touch felt comforting and right.

The Burke house was all aglow in Christmas cheer. A tree stood in one corner of the living room, covered in white lights. Carols were playing softly in the background and Neal could smell cinnamon and roasting turkey in the air.

Peter took the wine and the flowers from Neal’s hands. “Take off your coat. El will be right out with the appetizers.” He nodded toward the flowers. “I’ll just go and put these in some water.”

Neal’s hand went to stomach automatically. He had tried not to eat too much at brunch, knowing he was going to be having dinner here, but he definitely was not ready for appetizers yet.

Alone in the Burke’s living room, Neal pulled off his wool coat and draped it over the back of a chair and then went to take a closer look at the tree. The ornaments were a hodgepodge of colors and styles. Some looked quite old while others were clearly from more recent years. In the center of the tree was a silver heart, a photo of a younger El and Peter in its center. Etched around the edge it read _Our First Christmas._

Tears sprung to Neal’s eye unbidden and grief for the things he never got to have with Kate tightened in his chest.

A slender arm enfolded around him as El pulled him into a gentle hug. “I’m sorry, sweetie. We wanted you to have a happy Christmas. I should have moved that ornament around to the back of the tree.”

Neal let himself be held for a long moment before replying. “It’s okay, really. I just wish Kate and I had had the chance to have what you and Peter have.”

El pulled away and smiled up at him. “Me too.”

Then Peter was there, wrapping his arms around the both of them. “Me three,” he said. He pulled them both in a little tighter. “But we get to have this, _our_ first Christmas together, the first of many.

Neal smiled through his tears. Once he thought he knew what his future held, his beautiful wife, children, a white picket fence, years filled with love and adventure. Now, he had no idea what was coming, but for the first time, that was okay. There were new people in life, and new opportunities for love and it was time for some new adventures.


End file.
